Winter Song
by BlueBird Blues
Summary: After months of successfully eluding detection, the Winter Soldier returns to Brooklyn, NY searching for answers pertaining to his true identity. While much has changed in the city, old memories are stirred when he stumbles across a bakery that has been standing since 1925. There he meets one of the owners, Emily Cole and a fast friendship forms between them. Bucky/OC, Post CATWS.
1. Chapter 1

Once again, I've fallen victim to another wonderfully realized Marvel MCU character. And while we can all agree that, after the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes has abandoned the role of antagonist, I think it's fair to say he still has a long way to go before he can ever return to the person he was before. This will be a different sort of OC fic, but I'm very excited to share it with readers. Thank you for reading, I sincerely hope you enjoy.

* * *

**Winter Song**

Chapter One

Adrift

* * *

_**November.**_

The room would never work. It was cheap, yes. Its location was ideal. Safe. Close to two of the busier subway stations. And the owner didn't give two shits about his tenants as long as they paid him on time. Payments were dropped through a slot on his door on a monthly basis. It was a building infested with vagabonds and others looking for a place to stay hidden. None of his neighbors would be friendly or curious.

But this room…it felt too familiar. Its commonality exposed fractured memories of old safe houses and hideaways; prompting flashes of the life he was trying to run from instead of the one he was seeking to understand.

The late autumn air, still fresh from rain made filled the room with a dank, musty smell that coated the wooden floor and peeling painted walls. The ceiling was low enough that, when he stood, he could sense its tatty stucco surface just above him. The floors were old and even the slightest applied pressure elicited a screeching creak. There was only one window and it was too narrow for his stocky frame. If an escape was necessary, he would have to plow through it and that would be a dead giveaway.

A single light hung from the ceiling, its bulb more orange that white. When one of the trains went rushing past outside, it would sway and flicker like a dying flame. A slow ping of dripping water could be heard from every corner of the room, but he had yet to find the source of its constant racket.

Dismissing any lingering concerns, he sat on the edge of the bed that pulled out from the wall. He could feel and hear the springs shudder under his weight.

Already, the room felt more like a cell than a shelter. Even though he could still feel the key resting in his pocket, the lock on the door felt outside of his control. He swallowed, a harrowing sense of dread sparking in the back of his mind.

_Did_ he have control? Or was this a dream? An illusion maybe. Another sensation imprinted on his brain like so many before. Was he really free of them? Those that had controlled him?

His chest tightened as doubt began to creep over him, constricting like a snake. No, he was certain he had successfully eluded them in Romania. He would bet his life that his pursuers were still scouring the eastern boarders, gobbling up the false indicators he had left for them.

Pierce was dead. So were many of his men. But not all. Not the scientists. Not the doctor. There were always survivors. _Cut off one head…_

But they were not the only ones attempting to track him down.

_You know me. _

"No." He muttered, his voice hoarse and thick with exhaustion. He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back with the stranger's voice. But he could not shake it. The sound of it. It clung to his brain as if searching for it' place, desperate to show him that it's nature was true.

_**You know me. **_

"Quiet." He growled, standing too quickly. His head spun and his aching legs buckled underneath him. He collapsed on the bed, his vision blotted black. His limbs went numb and his stomach swam like a stormy sea. He could feel his control over his body slip away from him.

Another blackout. They were beginning to grow more frequent. Another reason to fret. Another reason to surrender himself. He was vulnerable without the assistance of the doctor. He had never been taught how to fight these sorts of battles.

He was far and away from all he knew. Or rather, what he had been "programmed" to know. Was that the word for it? Programmed? Maybe not. It would have to do. He couldn't decide on a better one. And that was a detail that could wait.

He rolled onto his back, his bloodshot eyes trained on the ceiling. Blinking, he tried in vain to will his vision clearer.

_Your work is a gift to mankind. _

He groaned again, ramming his flesh and bone hand into his skull. What he would give to quiet the voices. They were no help to him now. Only temptations, distractions, nightmares…

In times like these, he longed for the uniformity of his past life. The one he could still remember with succinct clarity. The one that had not been erased. Or stolen. Stolen? Yes. Stolen.

In that life, he had no memory of this. Being lost. Without direction. Without a clear sense of purpose. His reality had been so simple. Two shades. Black and white. Allies and enemies. One mission after another. There had always been a plan. An extraction. A safe house. A support team was always waiting for him to do his part. When the mission was completed they were there mop of the mess and cover his tracks. The world's greatest strategists were called in to assess his missions and assure the best method was deployed. No variable was out of place.

Then it was on to the next mission. That, or there was the ice. And sleep. Dreamless and painless.

He had nothing now. No orders. No plans. Only the money he had relieved from passing strangers and unprotected homes. Stashes he had been made aware of during his days as Pierce's asset.

There was only one thing he possessed that was fully his own. Desire. White hot, and burning at all hours. A desire to understand who he was. To sift through the lies until he came across what was true.

Which is why he had come here. Coordinates 40.6928° N, 73.9903° W. Brooklyn, New York, United States.

This city was his home. Or it had been. At one time. Whether or not he would be able to track down any information or access any lost memories, he couldn't be sure. But as of now, it was the only lead he had managed to get his hand on.

He lifted himself up, his eyes looking for the table that sat under the window. His sight blurred and he held a hand to his head, waiting for the room to quit its spinning.

There on the table stood his only key to a life he had yet to confirm even existed at all.

A file he had stolen several months past. Though it felt like it was so long ago. He couldn't register the date anymore.

He knew every word of it now, having poured over it almost one hundred times.

Along with four pages of army documentation dated 1945, there were three pictures and two names.

The first picture was the largest. It was a young man. If he turned his head a certain way it could have been a mirror image.

This was James Buchanan Barnes. This was him. Supposedly. All he had was the word of one man.

The man in the smaller picture. The man on the bridge. Given name: Steven Rogers. Alias: Captain America.

His...friend.

He cursed under his breath and stretched out on the bed again. His head felt heavy, has if he would sink through the mattress and fall through the earth. Trying to fend off the voices again, he began muttering all he knew, filing through the paltry bits of information it had taken him almost eight months to procure.

Still he could hear them, like whispers now. Flitting around his head. Ghosts eager to haunt him, waiting to strike. All this talk was helping. What he needed was sleep. And he needed it now.

He waited, trying to slow his shallow breaths, praying that soon the noise would cease and his world would fade to black.

* * *

Fortune for once, was on his side. He slept for some time and not once was he plagued by voices or images that still meant nothing to him.

When he woke, he had no memory of falling asleep and no concept of the time. During his sleep he had rolled onto his stomach. His prosthetic was resting under his head and when he shifted his weight and pulled his neck up, a sharp pain radiated through his shoulders. He cried out, his whole body as stiff as the steel in his prosthetic.

Rolling back onto his side, he gazed towards the window. Faint light poured in from the cracks between the blinds. But was it the light of dawn or dusk? What time had it been when he first fell asleep? What day had it been?

_I don't know. _He thought. _Can't remember. _

He sat up, his shoe-clad feet hitting the floor hard. His hands gripped the edge of the mattress as he tried to gather his wits about him again.

Whatever the day, whatever the time, he knew he had slept too long. It would take time, far too much time, for him to feel truly awake again.

He stood up, realizing that he was hungry. And this time, it wasn't a hunger he could ignore. He needed sustenance.

Remembering that he had a watch in the pocket of his jacket, he plunged his hand inside at pulled it out.

06.45

_Good. _It was morning. The streets would be close to vacant. He could get what he needed and then continue his search for a more fitting shelter.

Zipping his jacket, he grabbed the clip of cash he had slid under the mattress and stuffed it in his back pocket.

He pulled a baseball cap from the table and fitted it on his head.

Now that he had all of his possessions on his person, he left the apartment; not bothering to lock it behind him.

* * *

And that's chapter one! I should say first off that my 1st chapters are always much, much shorter than the subsequent ones. This chapter very much so. I usually aim for my chapters to be at least 3x this length. My OC will be introduced in the next chapter. I find it's always best to start with the canon character and I wanted to establish his status.

Again, thank you for reading. I hope to "see" you next time. I would love, love, love to read what you think of this start. Thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you so much, everyone, or all of your reviews and follows and favorites. I haven't had such an excited reaction to a first chapter before! I hope I can continue to earn it!

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Chapter 2

Coffee, Black

The Winter Soldier had found his way to Brooklyn, NY at the most apt of times. Though the solstice was still many weeks away, the final season of the year was already beginning it's languid descent onto the borough.

The signs were everywhere. The warmth and color of autumn was beginning to fade. The city was turning bleaker with each passing day. Chilly bursts of wind nipped at pedestrians, irritating any bare skin and provoking city dwellers to start searching for their winter clothes. The fragrances of pumpkin and cinnamon had begun to grow stale. To most, the thought of another gray day unaccompanied by tender wisps of snow was too tedious to fathom. Many longed for the smells and sights the holiday season would soon bring. While others wished to bypass the ice and snow altogether and embrace the flowering spring.

The morning light, or what little could be seen of it, had yet to creep through the maze of high rises and brownstones, leaving the streets dark. The night was gone, but it's frigid hold still lingered in the dewy air. Thin grey clouds coated the skyline, teasing the possibility of rain.

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his navy jacket and surveyed the street outside his door. He felt no worry of discovery here. He had called upon his decades of training and preparation for situations such as this and any hint of a trail left behind had been expertly wiped out.

The block he had chosen was one of the older ones. He could see it's age written in cracks running like dried out rivers through the brick and brownstone, in the chipped layers of paint and the intricate accents. Most of the buildings that lined the blocked were still in use, but some had been boarded up and were now covered in dust, graffiti and worn legal notices.

Still, his instinct commanded him to search the streets, his eyes always watching for suspicious persons. There were very few people up at such an hour. A taxi slunk by, looking for early morning tickets. A spindly man was speaking loudly on a cell phone, his hand wrapped tightly around a bulky briefcase. Two women scurried past, pressed together for warmth.

He stepped off the stoop. After looking down the street, then up, he decided to head north. He walked on for ten minutes. Slowly. Taking his time. Surveying the streets and signs and flickering lights.

Even after several months, he was not used to this. Walking. Out and about. Aimlessly, really. His purpose now, in this moment, was just to find food. There was no target to search for. No timeframe to abide by. No monitors watching from a safe distance, there to make sure he hit his marks. His purpose was simple now.

Mundane.

There were many in the city that would envy him at a time like this. He had no job to do. No schedule to keep. His time was his own.

Was this freedom? Or, was this isolation? Or were they possibly one in the same?

It was that, among other things, he was determined to understand. The more he traveled, the more intense his desires became. For once, his life was not being dictated by the motives of others.

Somewhere deep within him, hope still existed. Locked away. It would be long before he was able to peel back enough layers to find it. But still, it lived within him, sparked to new life by the man on the bridge. And by some insane stroke of fate it still clung to life, faithfully guiding him like a shivering candlelight in the eye of a hurricane.

He stopped walking, his stomach trembling strongly enough to jar him from his thoughts.

_I need...something_. He thought, remembering why he had stepped out in the first place. His needs had always been taken care of. His wants on the other hand...

He adjusted the cap on his head, cleared his throat, rubbed more sleep from his eyes, yawned, anything to erase his current train of thought. He had been down that road before and it only led him on another lightless path.

He looked around and realized he could not recall how it was he had come to this street.

To...Pierrepont Street.

The discomfort in his gut was quickly becoming something more painful. He swallowed, his throat as dry as his cracked lips. He scanned the buildings across from him, hoping to see something that would put an end to his hunger.

There was a dry cleaners, closed. An ATM sat in it's own little alcove between a pharmacy and a hardware store. A mexican diner, closed. A kitschy little shop, closed.

_Dammit_. He cursed, his impatience getting the better of his steely composure. _There should be something-_

He peered around the corner to the next block, his eyes scanning each and every sign within his sight. And then, something caught his eye.

Before he could identify exactly what had trapped his attention, his vision was flooded by a memory. He could hear a melodic voice ringing like an echoing bell, but it was too far away for him to identify any words. The images flashed too quickly in his head and he was unable to make any recognitions.

He stepped around the corner, searching frantically for the image that had triggered something from one of his pasts.

His eyes darted back and forth. As the memory began to fade, panic ballooned in his chest and he gulped in air. Just as suddenly as the memory had come, it was gone. With his brain no longer distracted, clarity returned, and he realized that the image had no been in front of him, it had been above him.

He stepped backwards and shifted his gaze upwards. Squinting in the gray morning light, he read the words etched onto a wooden sign that swayed on an iron rod.

_**Cole's Corner Bakery est. 1925**_

Aside from paint, the sign had not changed since the year it was hung. The type was reminiscent of a more glamourous time, the polar opposite of minimal. True, the sign looked rather antiquated when compared to the others that lined the street. The lettering was intricate and looking to be hand painted. The words were a bright royal blue, the background a pristine white. It had survived war and repair a thousand times over. But…

_Why do I- How do I know this?_

As he stared at it, watching it rock sluggishly backwards and forwards, the memory returned again. Engulfing him this time.

Images slipped seamlessly into his head, painting over the reality that surrounded him.

The empty morning streets filled with cars that rattled and banged much louder than modern models. The sidewalk was soon flooded with people. Smoke filled the air and the amber light of a later time soon followed.

Finally, the voice had returned and this time he could hear every word.

_**Becky, it's your brother's turn to choose. **_Even though she spoke loudly to ensure her voice would cut through the busy street sounds, it came upon him like a whisper. Gentle and familiar.

_**Is not! Jamie picked last! **_He could recognize the other voice as well, but it's higher, hoarse pitch stirred something other than welcome in his mind.

_**You know very well, you picked last time. **_

_**But he always picks the same thing. **_

_**James, dear? **_He could see a hand reaching for his. _**Where would you like to go?**_

He expected there to be more, but it all faded too quickly. The smell in the air. The taste of it. The sounds roaring in the street. It all disappeared. The stillness of the morning returned and he was left with nothing but the smoke of his own breath as it hit the cold air. Reality set in like a great weight and he was left with nothing but those last words.

_**Where would you like to go?**_

He clung to the sound of it. Recalling it again and again. But he couldn't place it just yet. He could see no face to accompany it, either. Just the gentle swishing of a forest green skirt and a hand at his eye level, beckoning for his own.

He turned to his right, looking in to the window of the building. As the sign had said, it was bakery. Inside he could see bodies moving around.

_**Where would you like to go?**_

As if to answer the question that floated in his brain, he stepped inside.

A bell hanging above the door, tinkered as he entered. A chorus of "Good Mornings" followed. He stood just inside the door, surveying every inch hoping to jog another memory.

Even though the hour was early, a line about half a dozen people had already formed at the register. As people waited, they gazed at a large glass case that was filled with pastries and treats. On the wall behind it, a rack of breads and bagels stretched almost to the ceiling. The rest of the wall had been painted black and a menu had been transcribed onto it in various shades of blue and white chalk.

A wooden bar had been placed across the window to the left of the door. Three men sat there, drinking coffees from ceramic cups and talking business. On the wall opposite the register, pictures of varying sizes were hung in frames of an array of shapes.

Not wanting to attract unwanted attention, he shuffled into the line. He returned his hands to his pockets. His real one fished around for the money stored there, trying to estimate what exactly he could get.

His eyes fell to the right, to the lines of food that looked to still be steaming behind the glass. He swallowed, trying to contain his own salivating. His stomach felt as though it would cave in on itself and then shrivel into nothing if he didn't satiate it's grumbling soon.

He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten freshly made food. Since his severance with HYDRA he had been on the run gulping down stale foods from forgotten safe houses and buying anything else he needed from convenience stores.

Finally, his turn came and he approached the counter. He realized too late, that he had been so focused on the pangs in his stomach, that he hadn't actually read the offerings on the menu.

It seemed too late now. His brain was moving at a sluggish pace and the woman behind the counter had already greeted him.

"Good morning," she said, smiling.

He blinked, unprepared for the memory to return at such an inconvenient time. However, just as it had outside, the memory saturated his vision, replacing all that was in front of him with

He could hear the woman's voice again.

_**Tell Mrs. Cole what you want, dear**_.

His line of sight had was barely able to see over the counter now. _**He looked up at the woman who stood behind the corner and opened his mouth to speak. **_

"Sir?"

The memory vanished.

It was uncanny, the similarity between the woman in his memory and the one standing before him now waiting for his order.

She was in her late twenties, he guessed. Her eyes were blue and bright, matching the color of the chalk on the menu behind her. Just like the woman from his memory, she was a brunette, with dark, thick hair. Hers, however, was not as curled and set. Her bangs were cut straight and fell over her brow. She had gathered her it into a bun at the top of her head. A thick blue band of fabric was wound around her head and tied in a knot just off center.

"What can I get you?" she asked again, shifting to make eye contact with him.

"Coffee," he sputtered. "Black."

The young woman nodded, grabbing a cup from one of the stacks to her right.

"Anything to eat with that?" she asked.

He shook his head, trying to disperse the clouds in his head. Fractions of the the memory were mixing with reality, making him disoriented.

The woman behind the counter was a professional, however. She was used to all types of customers. _And it is Monday, _she thought.

"Rough morning?" she asked, brow furrowing sympathetically,

"Yeah," he said, rubbing his temple. He had yet to make eye contact with her.

She leaned backwards, looking into the kitchen. Turning back to him, she smiled again.

"We just pulled out the ham & cheese croissants." she explained. "They're nice and warm."

He looked at her, trying to get the gears in his head unstuck.

"Okay."

"Great." she said. With her free hand, she pressed four buttons on the register and then reached for a pen that was tucked behind her ear.

"Can I get your name?" she asked.

"I-uh"

The Winter Soldier. It was the only name he knew. But it was nothing more than code. A whisper meant to ignite fear into those that stood against the will of Hydra. He couldn't say that. But what could he say? He tried to remember the name on the passport he had stolen. He could picture it in his head, but the letters blurred together.

_What do I say? A name. Any name. Why can't I think of a name?_

As if understanding, the younger, more bracing voice from before erupted in his head.

_**Jamie! Hurry up, it's my turn! **_

"Jamie?" He repeated aloud.

"Did you say Jamie?" The woman asked, leaning closer to hear him.

"Ah-Yeah." He stuttered, the name still echoing in his ears.

"Alright," She said, scribbling on the cup. "That'll be $4.75."

He handed over the money and moved away with a grunt, his head still ringing with the sound of the name.

* * *

Emily Cole focused on correctly distributing the change the man had given her until she was sure he had shuffled away. She leaned over the register, curiously watching him as he made his way to the other counter. At first glance, she wondered if he was homeless. But his clothes weren't dirty and he didn't look like slight enough. In fact, he was rather well built.

"Chloe?" She called to the girl on her left, who was restocking cutlery. "Can you ring up the next one?"

"Sure, Emily." Chloe said.

"Thanks,"

Tucking the pen behind her ear, Emily set the cup down on the counter and grabbed one of the slip napkins before stepping into the kitchen.

She smiled at Robby who was setting the next batch of croissants in the oven.

"What do you think, Robby?" She asked approaching the table where the fresh batch lay steaming. She rested her hands on her hips and surveyed the sheet.

"Which one's your best?"

Robby stepped up behind her. "Always the center, Emily."

Emily smiled, her eyes glowing. "Mmm, looks like it's the biggest, too. Thanks."

Using the napkin, she swiped it up. "I'll set out the others in a sec."

"Got a tough customer on your hands?" Robby asked.

"No," Emily said, thoughtfully. "It's a new one this time. What was it my mom always said? You've got to woo them right."

"Yes, ma'am." Robby chuckled, returning to his work.

Emily stepped out of the kitchen and slipped the croissant into a bag. She walked past Chloe and reached for the cup she had left behind, intent on passing it off to their barista.

She stopped however. Chewing on her lip, she rose up on her toes so that she could see over the espresso machine and look at the man again. _He looks like hell. _She thought, wondering if he would collapse onto the floor right then and there from lack of sleep. _If the dark circles hung any lower they'd droop right off his face. _

Tossing the cup into the trash can under the unopen register, she grabbed the largest size they had.

"Just coffee, please. The strongest." She said, handing it to Russell. "No room."

Russell nodded and filled it up before handing it back to her.

"Jamie!" She called, stepping towards the pick-up counter.

At first, she believed she would have to call him again, but he approached right away.

"Have a good day," She said, as he took his order from her.

He said nothing, simply nodded and turned to leave.

As the door opened and the bell tinkered again, she called, "See you next time, Jamie!"

He stopped, turned and looked at her. She smiled and waved, even though she could already feel the pink heating up her cheeks.

His mouth fell open, and Emily expected him to say something. But he just turned away again and left.

* * *

Even though he had spent under seven minutes inside the bakery, his body had already acclimated to the warmth. Stepping outside felt akin to diving into an icy lake, but it was a sensation he was no stranger to.

As he walked, he lifted the cup to his lips and drank heavily. The liquid burned his tongue, coating it in an earthy bitterness that left his taste buds completely numb. The coffee slipped down his throat and he could feel the heat plunging deeper into his system slowly beginning to warm him from his center, out to his limbs. He drank until he could feel the heat buzzing in his fingertips, almost emptying the cup right then and there.

The coffee settled uneasily in his belly. It wasn't enough to satisfy. He could practically feel it swishing about. At first he thought he would be sick, but the wave of nausea was only temporary.

Looking to his other hand, he could feel the heat of the croissant seeping through the tissuey bag; the flesh of his palm soaked it in. He licked his lips. His stomach was quivering in anticipation. He ducked into the alcove where the ATM machine sat lonely and unused. Setting his coffee down, he tilted the bag and let the croissant fall into his hand. He lifted it to his mouth, but stopped just short of biting down.

Something had caught his eye. A red light, the size of a pinpoint, steadily blinking just above him.

A security camera. He could see his own mutated reflection in the glossy spherical lens. Another blank, black eye watching him, tracking him, waiting to spill it's secrets to his hunters.

He growled, cursing under his breath. Dropping the food back into the bag, he picked up his coffee and hurried away.

_Idiot. _He thought. _Letting your guard down. There's got to be somewhere I could-_

He ducked into an alley way, his eyes trained on the gray sky above. Recalling his training, he bit down on the edge of the bag, holding it between his teeth. He moved the coffee cup into his right hand and, using his strength and mechanical arm alone, hoisted himself up the fire escape above him.

There was safety in height. The higher he climbed, the less likely he was to find enemies above. He could watch for any potential threat below, without worrying about aerial attacks.

The wind was stronger on the roof. He set his sustenance down on the brick wall that lined it, and used both hands to better affix his cap to his head.

Finally, he could consume his food. Sitting on the edge, he pulled the croissant out of the bag and opened his mouth again. He was so famished, he considered swallowing it whole. The thought of such a large amount of food sliding down his gullet was near bliss, but he knew he would be better served taking his time.

He bit into it, letting loose small tendrils of steam. The outside had cooled some, but the center was still piping hot. Gooey strings of salty cheese and thin slices of meat tasted like nothing he could remember. It was unlike anything he had eaten in months. Years even. He chewed for almost a minute, letting the contrasting flavors mix together.

He swallowed it slowly, then exhaled. Plumes of white smoke erupted from his mouth, carrying with them the fragrance of smoked meat and butter. His eyes rolled shut and he bit off a much larger piece, leaving just one last bite.

After that initial mouthful had disappeared down his throat, his mind was left to wander. And soon he found himself mulling over more troubling thoughts.

The security camera. How could he have been so foolish? He had only stood under it's eye for several fleeting seconds, but even one second could amount to trouble. HYDRA was equipped with decades worth of SHIELD technology. The sort of technology he himself had used during many a mission. Face tracing, fingerprint tracking, DNA analyzers, a Tac Team that could retrieve a single soul from a crowd of thousands in mere minutes.

_I can't keep going on like this. Hiding. _

He needed to do more than simply shelter in the shadows. That was exactly what would be expected of him. There would be those within HYDRA, and other intelligence groups for that matter, that would underestimate his understanding of this world. And while most still believed him to be nothing more than a myth, there were those that knew better. Those that knew him in ways even he did not understand. Even so, it was possible that moving around in the open more often would serve him better. And all strategizing aside...

He needed-_No_. He wanted it now. A life on the outside. This was more than a necessity. Necessity couldn't fuel a fire like this. He wanted to do more than survive.

And if he was to do that, he needed more than money and a roof over his head. He needed identity.

Finding the bakery had been happenstance. He would need to delve deeper into the past of this man. James Barnes. He was not yet ready to adapt this other life, another nature. Whatever the hell it was.

So for now...for the time being. He would be…

Who would he be?

He reached for the coffee again, mulling over his options. He looked down at the cup, examining the writing on the side.

_**Upgrade, on the house!**_

_**Jamie**_

He said the name aloud. This time, without question.

For now, he would be Jamie.

* * *

He returned to Pierrepont Street the next day. This time he came in the afternoon, hoping to pull another thread of memory from the Cole Bakery. He had explored different sections of the neighborhood, walking slowly and analyzing every last inch of brick and glass and concrete, but nothing had come of it. Too much had changed. It seemed the bakery was the only business that had survived decades of change.

He had only intended to walk past and hope for another flash, but by that time the storm clouds above had begun to release hard, cold rain. He didn't mind the horrid weather, it was nothing he hadn't lived through before. But the thought of another hot coffee wasn't something he could not easily pass up. And, once again, his stomach was grumbling for something to satisfy it.

At first, he could not locate the woman who had helped him the day before. But after placing his order, she came bursting from the kitchen, balancing three large baskets of bread in her arms. Not wanting to draw unwanted attention, he simply took his food and drink, and exited.

_Now what?_

He couldn't escape to the roof again, the storm had only grown more forceful during his short time inside. He couldn't afford to catch another sickness. He had been ill in Prague some months past, and his near incomplete lack of knowledge regarding his own health was almost enough to kill him then and there. He had learned from that experience that he couldn't afford to get sick again.

Looking to his left, he saw three circular, iron tables set up under the navy awning just outside the store. Setting his food and coffee down on the one closest to him, he pulled the chair out and took a seat.

He drank his coffee slowly, soon becoming practically hypnotized by the steady, pattering rain. It's loud roar was enough to keep his mind clear. The streets were silent, save for an unlucky soul scampering by every now and then.

When his cup was near empty, the door to the bakery opened and someone past him by. It was the woman from the other day.

She carried in her arm a large book and in her hand a steaming mug. His sense caught it's floral smell as she settled into the chair at the table farthest from him. She opened the book, took the mug into her hand and began reading.

He watched her closely, but carefully. He wanted desperately to jog another memory, but he didn't want her to catch him staring. He was no master of social graces, but he knew well enough that people didn't like to be spied upon.

_Shouldn't disturb her. _He thought. But in the end, his longing for understanding won out. Social graces be damned. This was too important. This was his life.

He rose out of his chair, it's feet scraping loudly against the concrete. She didn't seem to notice approach her.

His artificial arm grabbed at the chair across from her. He pulled it out and slid into the seat before she could protest. It wasn't until he had settled that she sensed his presence.

Glancing up, she started, apparently entirely unaware of his approach.

Her eyes scanned over him. After what seemed like hours to him, she finally opened her mouth. He had hoped to hear another spirited "hello," but she said:

"Is there something wrong with the coffee?"

He looked down at the cup he was still holding in his right hand, having completely forgotten about it.

"I'm sorry," she said, plainly. "Russell's the coffee guru and today's his day off. I thought I could do it myself. He's been teaching me, but I may be worse off than I think."

The longer she spoke the faster her flustered speech became. He realized too late that she thought he had come over to complain. As she rambled, she closed her book without marking her page and shifted in her chair.

She was apologizing, that much he understood. He wanted to stop her. To correct the mistake. He wasn't good at this. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't even think. His head was swirling with adrenaline. He couldn't even believe he had approached her so suddenly. Without thought. When was the last time he had a conversation without holding a gun to someone's head? His training had taught him how to blend in, to disappear, but never to assimilate.

_This was a mistake,_ he thought. _I should just go. Find another place. _

"I can have someone else remake it," She offered, entirely unaware of his growing distress.

Without waiting for an answer from him, she swiped the cup away. Pushing her own chair back, she rose out of it. The scraping sound snagged his concentration and he realized she meant to leave.

Panicking, he reached out and grabbed her wrist with his real hand.

She froze and her apologetic mumblings stopped abruptly.

If she was alarmed, he thought, she masked it rather well. He could feel her pulse hammering in her wrist. _Don't make her uncomfortable...more uncomfortable. Say something. Speak!_

"No, uh." he stuttered.

"Yes?" she said, her register ratcheting higher.

"It's good." He said lamely, releasing her wrist. "I wanted to tell you."

"Oh." She blushed and slowly lowered herself back into her seat.

"Thanks," She said, relaxing somewhat. Sheepishly, she place the cup back on the table and pushed it over to him. "Sorry, I just-"

She cleared her throat, entirely unsure of what she meant to say.

As silence swelled again, the sound of the rain became louder and louder, pounding the awning above them and dribbling down on to the sidewalk.

He knew he would have to say something else. But what? Racking his brain, he could think of nothing appropriate. The only thing on his mind was his connection to this place. So. Maybe...

"I used to-" he started, but stopped just as suddenly. _Can't say that._ What could he say?

"Sorry?" she said, still nervously polite.

_Lie. If you've been taught anything. It's how to lie._

He cleared his throat and straightened his posture.

"I used to hear stories about this place." He said. "My...grandfather lived upstairs, he always talked about the Cole Bakery."

"Oh!" She said, resting her elbows on her book. "Yeah, my great-great aunt and uncle opened it in 1925. We'll be coming up on our 90th Anniversary next year."

She looked to her left, peering in the window.

"That's Rose over there," she explained, pointing to the the tall, curly haired woman looking through a book of receipts. "She was named after her."

He nodded. Even though this information wasn't exactly pertinent to him, he found he liked listening to her talk. Her voice was clear as a bell and he could hear echos of the woman from the memory. Perhaps, her aunt. It was a welcome change from months of silence and scratchy whispers from dreams and nightmares he didn't understand.

"Rose is my cousin," she continued. "It's a family business through and through. She's manager and her mother is owner. Her brother Russell, well I already said it, didn't I? He's the coffee guy. And the bread guy, I guess."

She turned back to him, resting her chin in her right hand.

"My brother, Eli, works here, too. Well, not so much here, he manages the money and the business side of things with my uncle John. The rest of us are hopeless with that stuff. Then there's Danny...He just graduated. For now, he handles our deliveries…but he wants to be an EMT so we won't have him for much longer I imagine. And then Jess, er Jessica, she's the baby. She's still in school, but she's started running a blog for us and she keeps track of twitter and all that social stuff."

She grinned.

"And you?" He asked, hoping she would continue.

"Hmmm? Oh me?!" She said. "I do a little of everything. Rose likes me up front cause she says I'm best with the customers. They all say I got Aunt Rosie's baking gene. I'm in charge of the recipes and such, like my mother was before me. I train the new hires and I'll do the baking for the important clients. It's funny when I was young, I thought I'd want nothing to do with all this, but then my mother started teaching me how to bake and-"

She stopped.

"And, I am talking too much." She said, reaching for her mug. "Sorry, I do that sometimes."

He shook his head.

"No," He said, lamely. "It's okay."

She smiled, looking back into the store window again. Both her reflection and his was visible in the glass. She was glad to see he looked somewhat better than he had the day before. His eyes were a deep, dark brown. _Like cloves, _she thought. And although he needed a shave and a haircut and possibly a change of clothes, she really didn't mind his company.

She loved getting to know her customers. She considered the regulars her friends. Some of them had been coming to the shop for decades. Others sent the shop Christmas cards and presents. But it wasn't everyday that customers sat down with her for a conversation, especially brand new ones.

_But there's something about him. _She had recognized it right away, it had simply taken her some time to realize it. He was lonely. It wasn't in his manner or his speech, at least, what little he had said to her. It was those eyes. They were despondent. Something deep and troubling was swimming behind them. And though she couldn't decide upon her reasoning, she felt the need to stay. _Maybe he needs someone to talk to. _

"Are you new?" she asked. "Around here…"

He didn't answer right away.

"I'm pretty good with faces," she continued. "I don't remember seeing you come in before."

"I am," he answered. "I just moved here."

"And it's Jamie, right?' She asked, finally remembering.

"Yes, Jamie." He said. "And you're…"

"Oh! I didn't even say, did I? Sorry, my name's-"

"Emily." He finished.

She stopped, a spindly chill running up her back. "How'd you-?"

He pointed to her chest. She looked down.

"Oh yeah." she said, exhaling. Pinned to her sweater was a name tag reading: Emily C.

"We just got these last month, I keep forgetting I wear it."

Before he could drum up another response, a shrill beeping began to sound.

Emily looked down at the table and reached for her phone that sat next to her book.

"Well, break's over." She said. "Back to the grind."

Standing up, she dropped her phone into the pocket of her apron and grabbed her book from the table.

She looked down at him.

"Do you want a refill?" she offered, motioning to his cup. "It's only 40 cents."

He nodded.

"Kay." she said, smiling. "I'll get that for you. One sec."

She snatched up the cup again and hurried inside.

He rose slowly out of his seat, deflated. It wasn't enough. No new memories had made themselves known to him. It was possible he was tapped out here. There were likely other places in the city he could go to. But he couldn't think where to start again.

Walking inside, he dug his hand into his pocket looking for the correct about of change.

"Jamie!"

Hearing Emily call his name, he approached the counter again.

"Here you go." She said sweetly, passing off the cup.

He nodded again, trying to keep his disappointment hidden away.

_What do I do now?_

As he left, he glanced at the cup again. Under his name, a note was scribbled.

_**See you tomorrow? :)**_

Surprised, he looked through the window. Emily was watching him and she waved when their eyes met.

Raising his own hand, he mimicked her motion. She smiled and turned back to her work.

Jamie looked at the cup again, reading it and trying to imagine her voice speaking the words.

"Tomorrow." He said aloud before taking a sip from the cup.

"See you tomorrow."

* * *

Thank you so much for your patience. The day after posting the 1st chapter, my computer died. I'm still computerless but I will be remedying that soon. For now, I've been getting by at work and using my dad's desktop whenever I can manage. Once I'm settled again updates will come more frequently. I would love to hear your thoughts!


	3. Chapter 3

As always, I can't thank you enough for reading and reviewing. But that's not gonna stop me from trying! So, Thanks! I'm really excited that people like Emily. I love her to bits. And we'll get more of her story in this chapter. As well as Bucky's. Or should I say Jamie's? ^_^

* * *

Chapter 3

Snowfall

* * *

**Born in 1916, Barnes grew up the eldest child of four. An excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom, Barnes enlisted in the Army shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. **

He ran his fingers over the words on the page. The pads of each digit were rough and calloused; his keen sense of hearing could pick up the soft grating sound that rose from the page at his touch.

Each letter had been carefully chosen and placed just so. They reminded him of a dutiful rank, a perfect line of men frozen at attention. The comparison aroused more voices in his head. Chilling shouts, echoing in unison, bouncing around in his head but never slowing enough for him to comprehend.

_Enlisted after Pearl Harbor._ He scrawled the words into a small notepad he had relieved from a convenience store the day before. He read the words again, making sure his own writing was legible enough. Then he circled the final two. Pearl Harbor. Harbor. A location on a map no doubt.

So far, he had filled nearly half of the little pad. Each line was it's own new variable. A potential road for him to wander down once Brooklyn had served it's purpose. Another date to consult. Another place to explore. Another name to investigate. Each one just a drop in a vast, murky ocean.

He took a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling through his nose.

He was beginning to grow tired of these questions. What he wanted was an answer. A shred of truth that needed no explanation.

_This is unlike anything I've had to do before. That I can remember. This...mission. _

This mission. Is that what this was? Maybe he would be better served if he thought of it as such. There were no timetables. No superiors to report to. But, like all other missions that had come before, the completion of this task was important. Something to give his existence a purpose.

He returned to the book, his spirits roused again.

_This passage_. He had read it before. But not here. Somewhere else…

_Washington._ He hadn't meant to begin his search so deep in the mire, but temptation had gotten the better of him. The first book he had grabbed from the stack he had compiled was one that heavily featured the man he supposedly was. This James Buchanan Barnes.

The book had been printed, published, and bound in 1958. New York, New York.

Heroes of World War II

1958. Had he been awake then? He tried to remember, but he knew the likely truth. Even if he had been, the memories were most likely gone. Wiped away so that he could start anew. A clean slate.

**After training in Camp McCoy, Wisconsin, Barnes and the rest of the 107th shipped out to the Italian front. Captured by Hydra troops later that fall, Barnes endured long periods of isolation, deprivation, and torture. **

_Captured by Hydra_. Like tar, the words trapped his gaze, pulling him deeper and deeper into a black abyss.

_S'not right. _He thought. _I-I wasn't...I didn't-_

Cogs in his brain clunked slowly into motion as he tried to recall was _he_ knew to be true. He had joined Hydra. Enlisted. To help- no to change...the world. To do what he could. The world needed to be changed. And he was the one to do it. Chosen. For his skill set. For who he was.

These words, theses thoughts were all he had. The singular constant memory he could return to when all else eluded him. His connection to Hydra had been voluntary. He knew the risks connected to his missions. He knew the sacrifices that he had made.

But even as he thought them through, even as he whispered them again and again under his breath…

_They don't belong. _He thought. Suddenly, they sounded wrong. They sounded manufactured. They were all that was clear in his mind but in that clarity, he was beginning to see them for what they were worth. Nothing.

But they were all he had.

Letting out a grunt, he lifted his elbows to the table, slamming them down harder than he meant to. He ran his fingers up his forehead and over his skull, pushing his hair back. He felt as though his brain had been removed and replaced with static and smoke. Words swirled around in his head, but not matter the order he placed them in, they never seemed to come together as they should. Not like they did on the page.

He leaned back, the seat he occupied creaking under his weight. The fluorescent lights above burned his eyes, but it was a welcome change from the sea of shadow. He let the light pierce his eyes, it's biting glow slowly working to ebb the frenzy building in his chest. It stung. But the sting was a welcome distraction.

As his beating heart returned to a more manageable throbbing, the words from the page flashed before him, creeping closer, then vanishing, only to reappear again and again.

Captured by Hydra.

Captured.

Straightening up again, he rubbed his eyes and the words were replaced by spots of light and color.

_It's too much too soon. _He thought, wiping beads of sweat from his brow line.

He slammed the book shut and let it drop to a pile on the floor, leaving the last words in the paragraph unread and unknown to him: _**But his will was strong.**_

He glanced at the watch on his wrist, one he had acquired the week before. 1:25.

_I should be going anyway. _He told himself.

He stood and gathered his collection of books, now thirteen in number. He returned each one to it's appropriate place, hoping no one would take them before he returned. For the past week, he had been frequenting libraries across the city. Searching for any sliver of history he could assemble into a proper memory.

He would wander through the stacks, gathering books of possible relevance as he went. Everything from the history of the great war to the biology behind modern prosthetic technology and it's innovators.

He was wary of using the internet to further his search. He had no way of knowing who or what was tracking him. Too many suspect searches could lead his hunters right to him. This also meant the checking books out officially or attempting to steal them was out of the question. He knew better than others, that very few actions made by a single person went unnoticed in this world. Eyes were everywhere. Ears too. Everything was tracked, logged and kept in files. Files that could be searched. Swiftly, depending on who was looking.

If his false trails held strong, his pursuers would not think to look for him in America let alone the borough of Brooklyn. And he would damned if a foolish mistake on his part, dashed out all his hard fought efforts.

Even if it did mean he would have to resort to archaic means to get by, caution was his most valuable ally now.

For the moment, however, his search could be put on hold.

After all, he didn't want to be late.

* * *

"_I hear it's your birthday, James." _

"_Yes Mrs. Cole."_

"_And how old are you today?"_

"_13" _

"_Old enough to order all on your own then."_

"_That's right, ma'am."_

"_Well then, what will it be?"_

_A line of sweets were displayed behind amber glass. He pressed his hands to it, drooling over the options. A small basket of lumpy looking cookes caught his eyes. _

"_What are those?" he asked, in grueling curiosity. _

"_Those are scones," Mrs. Cole answered. "Pumpkin Spice today. Want to try one for free?"_

_He nodded. Mrs. Cole, reached in to the display and pulled the biggest one from the pile. She passed it to him. It was still warm. And it smelled to him like the Thanksgiving meal that was soon to come. _

"Jamie?"

Like thousands of glass shards, the memory fell away. He was sucked, once again, back into the present. He looked up to his left.

Emily stood over him. She was wrapped once again in her navy peacoat. A floral scarf of blues and grays was wrapped around her neck. In one arm, she balanced two small plates. In the other, her mug of tea.

"I'm sorry," She said, brow furrowed in concern. "Did I interrupt?"

"N-no," He answered, straightening in his chair. It was a lie. But then, he had told her so many lies since their first meeting. What would one more matter? Disappointment settled in his gut like a stone, but he was used to the feeling. At the very least, it was better than fiery frustration.

Just as his dreams, the memory was already fading away. The harder he tried to grasp it, the farther away it seemed to fly. Until, like sand sinking through the cracks of his fingers, there was nothing left to hold on to.

Before taking a seat across from him, Emily set the two plates down on the table. One in front of him and one across. Atop each one sat a rust colored scone. He knew it. It was just like the one from his dream.

"Pumpkin Spice today." she said, beaming with pride.

_So that's what it was. _He thought. _The smell inside. _

For the last ten days, the pair had continued this burgeoning routine. He would pay for his coffee and wait for her outside under the awning, occupying any available table. She would follow soon after, having clocked out for her lunch half hour. She would bring with her a mug of tea and the daily scones she or one of her baking assistants had made that day.

He would eat and sip his coffee, a taste he was slowly growing fond of. She would talk and talk and talk. And he would hope to hell for another memory to come to him. Most of all, he hoped to see the faces of the women that lived within his memories. But they were still hidden. Locked away somewhere he couldn't reach.

On this day, the sky above was a thick, even sheet of gray. Three customers occupied the table behind Emily and they were talking loudly. Ambient music whispered through speakers that were placed at either corner of the window.

Without another word Emily pulled a large chunk from her scone using her thumb and index finger, licking her lips as she did so. Once she popped the morsel into her mouth, her eyes rolled back and she sunk into a moment of personal bliss.

"Mmm," she mumbled, before diving in for another piece. "Pumpkin is my absolute favorite. And this recipe was my mother's. Well, my grandmother's really. But the recipe's been passed down and preserved. So it's the very best out there, I'd stake my life on that."

He said nothing. Fortunately for him, she didn't find his silent nature deterring.

_Well, it's more fortunate for me._ She thought. _Most of the time, I chase people off cause I'm the one doing all the talking. _

She leaned her elbows on the table, watching him with a airy grin on her face.

"So...you gonna try it?" She asked, her voice lilting.

He looked down at the plate, having forgotten it was there. Without a word, he mimicked her, though the piece he tore off was much larger than hers.

A swirl of warmth and spice coated his mouth.

"What do you think?" Emily asked. When she spoke, another voice joined her. The voice from his memory. Mrs. Cole.

_Her grandmother. _He realized.

He answered aloud, with the same words he himself spoke in the memory.

"Just like Thanksgiving."

Emily smiled, delighted with his response.

"How's your day going?" she asked, taking her tea in hand.

"Better," He said, breaking off another large piece. "Now."

He was, of course, referring to the memory. It's presence in his mind was a comfort. It was another sign that despite his frustrations he was in the right place.

Emily however, could not know this.

To her ears, his answer sounded like a glowing compliment. Maybe even a casual flirtation. She couldn't help the pleasant shiver that crawled up her spine. She looked away, turning her gaze left and looking inside the bakery.

_Don't blush_. She thought, trying to will away the warmth that was beginning to collect under her cheeks. _He didn't mean it that way, I know that. I mean, how could he, right?_

She caught sight of her cousins, Rose and Russell, watching her from behind the counter. Rose flashed what looked to be a knowing smile, and Russell popped a thumbs up in her direction.

_Damn them._ Emily thought, feeling the cursed blush stain her cheeks. She raised her mug up to her face, trying to hide the rosy color that she could feel flooding her cheeks.

Thankfully, Jamie seemed entirely unaware of her little spell.

_He's so...different. _She thought, watching him as he ate.

He was such a peculiar man. Unlike anyone Emily had ever met. He was quiet, but not awkwardly so. He never seemed nervous or shy, only stoic and steadfast. He was focused, she thought. Taking in his surroundings carefully, as though his life depended on it. He was quick to dodge questions, yet he kept returning to the store to have lunch with her.

He was interesting to her, but after almost ten days she still had not pinpointed why exactly.

_Maybe it's best to leave well enough alone. _She thought, chewing on another bite of scone.

She swallowed. _Oh, who cares. _

"Can I ask you a question?" She said.

He tensed almost immediately. She wondered if he would deny her, but after a short silence he swallowed and then nodded.

"What do you do?" She asked, "For, you know, work and stuff."

_Lie. _His instinct beckoned. And so far, it had yet to lead him astray.

This lie would have to be different. He would have to remember it. Abide by it. Understand it and adopt it. He caught sight of the woman at the table behind Emily. She was scribbling rapidly on notebook paper.

"I'm a writer." He said, leaning back in his chair. "Freelance."

_Oh, I guess that would explain it. _Emily thought, relaxing into her chair as well.

"Explain what?" he asked.

Emily looked up. _Lord, did I say that out loud?_

The blush returned in full force.

"Oh, um, just - it would explain-" She stuttered.

_It would explain the disheveled appearance and seemingly 24/7 lack of sleep that you seem to operate under. The quiet nature, the grumpy nature, the...just everything I think I know about you. _

"Your...hours." She finally blurted. "You're not a 9 to 5-er. I was, heh, wondering."

Jamie just nodded. He didn't know what a "nine to fiver" was and he didn't care to find out.

"Are you working on anything now?" Emily asked, dying for a change in subject.

"Research," He said, after giving it some thought. "Just research at the moment."

That answer wasn't a lie. In fact, it may have been the first true thing he had told her. It was a relief, really. Even if he couldn't find any truths, at least he was capable of speaking them on his own.

"Oh?" She said. "What kind of research?"

"The past." He answered. "History. My history."

"Is that why you moved here?" She asked.

He nodded.

They both chewed and sipped in silence for several minutes, content with the simple pleasure of another's company.

Emily peered out from under the awning.

"It's a beautiful day isn't it?" She said.

He stared at her, brows furrowed in confusion. This was not a day he believed was considered beautiful by most. _Such an odd woman. _

"Not the sky," Emily explained, sensing his bewilderment. "I mean...you can feel it can't you?"

"Feel what?" He asked bluntly.

"That...well, that feeling in the air." She said, "The ice and the wind."

She breathed deeply and smoky breath flowed from between her lips.

"It's coming soon," She said. "The first snow."

He looked up to the sky, slid his eyes shut and tried to feel what she was talking about. But he felt nothing.

"I should be getting back." Emily said.

"Alright," He responded.

"Oh," She said, pausing as she stacked his empty plate on top of hers. "I almost forgot to say, I won't be coming into work until Tuesday. I've got a little mini vacation."

"I see." He said.

"You can keep coming of course." She said quickly. "I just won't be here. I wanted to let you know I guess."

He stood up. _If she's not here..._

The thought hung in his head, but he couldn't piece together an ending. Did it matter if she wasn't here. It was her voice, her food that stirred his memories. At least that was what he had come to believe. If she wasn't there the next day, would he be left with nothing. It was a possibility. One he didn't want to know.

"Goodbye, Emily." He said, pushing his worries away.

Emily looked up at him.

"Goodbye Jamie."

* * *

Emily watched him go, unsure of what to make of his solemn, emotionless farewell.

_I'll see him again. _She thought, setting her mind back to work. She still had 4 hours left to work.

After depositing the dishes into the sink, Emily stepped into the back office to return her coat and scarf to her locker. Once the coat was hung, she tugged absentmindedly on one end of her scarf, letting it slide gently around her throat until she had pulled it free. She wrapped in around the collar of her coat and closed the locker door.

Turning, Emily leaned her back against the locker, tugging at a lock of hair that had come loose. Her heart was pulsing pleasantly in her chest and she could feel a troupe of butterflies frolicking in her stomach.

_I'm gonna miss him tomorrow, I know it. _She thought, somewhat dazed.

She sighed.

_I haven't felt this way about someone since...Well, since Bennett. And that was 3 years ago._

Leaving the office, she pulled the stray lock of hair back into place and grabbed her apron from the hook by the door.

_It's not like I _like_ like him. _She thought, tying the apron around her waist. _I can't, I hardly know him. _

"Hi George." Emily said to her baker on call.

"Hi Emily," George said, "The scones are good to go."

"Thanks," she said. She grabbed a basket from under the counter and began transferring the fresh baked scones into it. Once she was done, she took the basket in both hands and headed out of the kitchen.

_I just...I like him. _

She cause sight of her reflection in the circular window of the door that led out into the bakery.

"Yeah." She said, addressing herself. "That's all."

The butterflies in her stomach dispersed and she felt the blush from her face drain away.

She pushed through the door, pleased that the matter was behind her. At least, it would have been, if not for her cousins.

"So…" Rose said, the minute she saw Emily slip out from the kitchen. "What's the deal with the hobo?"

She was smiling and her voice was teasing, but Emily knew to read between the lines. At 34, Rose was the eldest of the Cole cousins and she wore that honor with pride. She was always available for chats and she doled out advice much like a world weary mother.

"He's not a hobo." Emily corrected, holding the basket against her hip so she could pry open the glass door.

"He's got the vibe though." Russell piped in from his spot over by the whirring espresso machine.

Emily turned to shoot him a playfully scathing glare. Even though Rose's mother, Diana, had adopted Russell 2 years after Emily was born, to her he was no less of a blood relative than Rose was. He was a year older than she was and they had gone through school together, from Kindergarten to High School.

The glare, as Emily suspected, did nothing to deter him.

"The hobo vibe." He repeated for deference.

"Well, he's not." Emily said. She smiled at a customer who was keenly studying the menu. "Let me know if you need anything, ma'am."

Once she had finished stacking the scones, she shut the glass door.

"He's a writer." She explained, thankful she had needled an answer out of him.

"Well, that makes sense." Rose said. "But seriously, what's going on there?"

"You mean besides pleasant conversation?" Emily asked, feigning cooperation.

"Obviously," Russell said, handing off a drink to another customer.

"Nothing at all." Emily answered, coyly.

"Lies!" Rose and Russell cried.

"We saw the blush." Rose continued.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Emily said airily.

"Don't deny it, you were redder than Rose's hair dye." Russell said.

Rose almost dropped her trusty organizer and Emily snickered.

"So help me, Russ, it's not dye. I-" She sputtered.

"Yeah, yeah, we know the drill," Russell said, pretending to hide behind his washcloth.

"Miss?" The customer called.

"Yes, what can I get for you?" Emily asked, thankful for the woman's timing.

As Rose passed her by she whispered, "Don't think you're off the hook."

* * *

6:30 marked the end of Emily's shift and the start of her mini-vacation. The promise of impending freedom only made the clock tick by slower and slower. Thursdays evenings were never very busy and the cold weather was most likely keeping people snuggled up indoors.

Finally, her time came.

"Good shift," Russell called as she left. "See you Sunday."

Emily waved back. "See you Sunday!"

Stepping outside was like stepping into the freezer back in the kitchen. Emily shivered, and pulled her scarf tighter around her neck.

Thankfully, the dark clouds had kept their rain storms tucked away that day. Her walk home would not be plagued by icy rain or slippery puddles.

Her apartment was just three blocks away, a walk she had completed time and time again. It would take no more than 10 minutes, but her feet and back were aching from a double shift.

She walked quickly that night, all the way thinking fondly of the warm bath that she would draw up the moment she got home.

_I really prefer the morning shifts. _She thought, waiting for a taxi to roll by before she crossed the street.

There was something marvelous about greeting people in the morning hours. Knowing that they came to her bakery to start their day off right was a thrill for her ego. Emily loved chatting with the regulars and sending them off with coffees and bite sized treats. As her mother had always told her, a little sweetness could make all the difference in a day.

Afternoon and evening shifts had their own charms. Watching first dates and reunions conspiring was another little pleasure she reveled in. But there was something truly special about the morning shifts. The small thrill of preparing the day's breads and treats. Opening the store and watching people file in, knowing all the work was well worth it.

_I am working Tuesday morning. _She thought, climbing the steps to her building door. _So there's that. _

While work was her primary source of joy and purpose, it was her apartment that was her temple.

Before Emily had moved in, the place had belonged to her great aunt Sophie. Emily had only known for for several short years. Sophie was a second generation Cole and the only one of her siblings not to marry. She was a charming woman, who loved her independence and preferred traveling and baking to children or a husband.

Four years ago when she passed, she left the apartment to her relatives. The Cole family decided that Emily was the best fit for the one bedroom apartment for the time being. There was talk of her younger cousin Jess moving in once she had finished her schooling but for now, 104 Willow Street, Apt. 3 was all hers. She paid rent every month, but thanks to rent control it was pennies compared to what else was out there and Emily was grateful to have a space all to herself.

The building had been erected even before the bakery, but it had been updated here and there over the century. It was brick, sandwiched between a sky blue apartment building and more traditional brownstone. The other tenants of 104 Willow Street were all much older than her, as were most of the residents that occupied her block of the street. Emily didn't mind. It was a quiet neighborhood and she always craved a little peace after working in the hustle of the bakery.

After a long, steamy bath and a small dinner of canned soup and half a grilled cheese sandwich Emily fell happily into bed.

"Ahhh," She said aloud, stretching her limbs as far as she could.

She rolled onto her side and grabbed her phone from the table.

_No need to set my alarm tonight. _She thought gleefully. _Just have to see what's up for tomorrow. _

"Tomorrow…" she said aloud, scrolling through her calendar. "tomorrow…"

_Ugh_. She thought, scrolling away. _Laundry day. _

"I loathe laundry day." She groaned, pouting like a spoiled child.

_Oh well,_ She thought, placing the phone back on her night stand. _Before I have even think about that. _

_I'm gonna sleep. And sleep. _

She yawned, rolled over onto her stomach and buried her head in her pillow.

_And sleep_.

* * *

Cold. Every inch of him was cold. His veins felt like rivers frozen solid. His joint were growing stiffer with every step. His legs felt like tree stumps, never meant for such vigorous motion.

At first, he thought the sounds he heard were ghost. Wailing, whistling screaming. Surrounding him with their cries.

Wind, he registered. Just the wind. Normal for a blizzard like this.

Is that what this was? A blizzard. As feeling spread through his body, a heavy weight fell into his hands. He looked down. He carried a firearm. This was a mission. He was on a mission.

These would be trying circumstances for any man. But he was more than a man. No storm could hold him back. It was his alias after all. The _Winter _Soldier. A title to incite fear, yes, but it was not entirely unfounded in reality.

Urgency was all he knew now. His window of time was closing rapidly. With every gasping breath that burned his throat, seconds were vanishing. Time was everything. He needed to move faster. Push harder.

The day would be ending soon. What little sunlight that managed to bleed through the thick storm clouds would very quickly dissipate and the hunt would be rendered impossible. Even now his vision was far too compromised. No shot he took now could be taken with confidence. The team he had been dispatched with was leagues behind, unable to tread through the snow and sleet as easily as he could.

He didn't know the name of the mountain he was currently scaling. It was not necessary for him to know. He had all the information needed to complete the mission at hand.

His task had been an easy one initially. A defector had been identified amongst a team of scientists working deep within Hydra's eastern ranks. Researchers like this man, J.G. Wexler, had been known to be liabilities. _Thinkers_, the director had told him, _often think themselves into an early grave_.

_It was our mistake,_ he said. _Wexler was a known risk. _

His mission: erase the error. Swiftly. By any means necessary.

Wexler proved to be more slippery than any of them could have anticipated. He had predicted that his recent actions had aroused suspicion within the high ranks of Hydra. Just as the strike team had swooped in for questioning he managed to escape the research compound, taking with him documentation that would derail the secrecy that allowed Hydra to survive and thrive without rupture. If their livelihood was to remain in the shadows where it belonged, the target would have to be dealt with as quickly as possible.

Wexler's fear had sealed his fate. The order came down quickly. Death to the traitor.

If it weren't for the storm, the job would have been done by now. The barrage of snow had made his tracks nearly impossible to trace.

He had been warned in the briefing that something like this could happen. This inconvenience. This setback.

The target knew these mountains well. Even in the grueling cold, Wexler stood a better chance of surviving he did. There were caves littered about the mountain side, anyone one of which could serve as a temporary shelter.

He would have to track him down before he could vanish into a crevice like fleeing vermin.

As if to answer his thoughts, an unnatural sound reached his ears. It cut through the raging winds.

Snow. Crushed beneath a heavy weight.

At first he thought he had imagined it. But it came again. From his left. The sounds were uneven. Staggered.

Wexler. It had to be.

He returned his finger to the trigger of his weapon. Holding it close to his chest, his eyes slipped shut. The winds were still howling, but he focused all his attention, all his might on the sound that would something his shot.

Slowly, with aching precision, he lifted the gun into position. Through the view finder, he could see traces of heat.

Everything but the sound of his own quipped breaths faded away. Not even his own heart beat could distract him now.

_...There. _

He pulled the trigger.

Before he could take another breath, a piercing cry echoed over the mountain side. His target had been hit.

Dropping the gun into the freshly fallen powder, he grabbed at the flare kept strapped to his left thigh. Lighting it, he sent it soaring into the air.

But his work was not yet done. He still had to retrieve the files and insure that the target was dead.

His slipped a knife from his right pocket, holding it in his right hand.

With careful steps he moved closer to the sniveling noises that combatted the raging winds.

With seven steps, he could see his target. Three more and he would be on top of him.

Wexler was late to notice the arrival of his pursuer, but when he did he started to babble.

"остановить. не подходи ближе!"

The sputtering pleas were of no consequence to the Winter Soldier. He knew, bargaining, fear, anger, none of it mattered.

His metal arm covered the man's face, quieting the fruitless talk. He raised the knife, positioning it under Wexler's left ear.

The deed was done in an instant. Blood sputtered from the gaping wound on the targets neck like water from a fountain. As it seeped into the snow, the raging winds picked up it's salty stench and spread it like hot flames.

Unfazed, he began searching for the documents. The body twitched, still trying to cling to the little life left.

He found them, hidden in a small envelope tucked into the man's shoe.

He stood, and turned to address the growing commotion behind him. The team had finally caught up.

The mission handler, Agent Donovan, approached him with a small communicator.

He took it without question.

"This Deputy Director Pierce. Mission Report." a voice buzzed through.

"Package Retrieved and in Route." He answered dutifully, passing the envelope to another agent.

"And Wexler?"

"Confirmed Kill."

"The director thanks you for your service."

The line cut out.

He returned the phone to the agent.

"Any injuries?"

"No."

"You sure?"

Donovan motioned to his arm. The soldier looked down.

Even in the dying light, he could see why Donovan doubted him. His arms, his torso, practically all of his body was covered in blood. The cold air had worked quickly, sealing the blood to his uniform. He lifted his right hand to his face. He could feel it. Blood. Sinking through the glove he wore. Touching his skin. Burning. Like ice.

As quickly as he had been dropped into it, He felt himself torn from the nightmare.

He woke, gasping for air, his body covered in a cold sweat.

A dream. Or...a memory? It had been far more vivid than anything that had plagued his mind before. He could see the snow. Feel the blood coating him, weighing him down. He could still smell it. Taste it on his lips.

What had brought this on? What had he done to elicit such a strong memory? He had to know.

Cold air hit his face. Turning to the right, he saw it.

He had left his window open. To combat the fevers that usually hit in the night.

Early morning winds danced through the window, carrying with them flurries of white.

It was just as Emily had said.

The first snow had come.

* * *

Thank you again for reading! This first part of my story will move a little slowly, but I've planned it that way. When it picks up, it will really pick up.

I would love to hear from you. Thank you again.


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